‘I always readA Christmas Carolover the Christmas period. I feel it is a book that never ages,’ Padam tells him. ‘Although I somehow doubt you are going to have Christmas ghosts coming to haunt you. Or knockers turning into something nasty. You are already a good man, Malcolm Buswell.’
Padam turns away to greet a customer and Malcolm is left staring in surprise at the back of his maroon, orange and coffee-coloured Fair Isle vest.
As he is about to leave the shop later that day, Padam calls him back. ‘I expect I will see you later.’
Malcolm flushes, wondering what on earth Padam is referring to. It can’t be that he is planning on calling round? Malcolm experiences a rush of panic.
‘The Christingle service your friend Ruth is holding? My nephew’s children are taking part …’ Padam pauses. ‘I imagined you would be going.’
He wasn’t.
But he is now.
‘Of course,’ Malcolm tells him, ‘I never miss it.’
A good man – maybe. But also, as it turns out, a liar.
Malcolm is running late. The napkin purchasing had been followed by a trip to the deli for some special chocolates, and then he had decided to go the whole hog and hunt out some new bedding for the main guest room. Malcolm believes that the material for his bedding should, like his pocket handkerchiefs, be white Egyptian cotton. Although, in the end, he had succumbed to some white bed linen with discreet navy ribbon edging. He was halfway home with his packages, when he turned around and retraced his steps to buy some new white towels. He went for the largest, softest bath sheet he could find. Then, once he was home and unpacked, he had the problem of deciding what to wear. He had changed three times, eventually deciding on slim-fitting Paul Smith trousers and a three-quarters-length coat, both in navy, with an orange polo-neck jumper.
As a result of all of this, he is now literally running to the church. He takes the slope up from Station Road to St Mary’s at a gallop, coat flapping. At least the slope is dry and not slippery. Today has been filled with sunshine and it is unexpectedly warm. He pauses before the door, smoothing his hair with shaking hands, before slowly and quietly pushing it open. The body and the back of the church are full. Every seat seems to be taken and, gathered in a bunch furthest from the altar are the children, some wearing crowns and some wearing tea-towel shepherd headdresses. As he is faltering, wondering where to sit, the door opens behind him, and he is relieved to see that he isnot the last to arrive. It is Miss Poole, looking flushed and wearing, in addition to her scarlet lipstick, a dark green jumper withHo Ho Hoon the front in pink and red sequins. The children stir and then comes the fulsome sing-song chant of, ‘We like your jumper, Miss Poole. Great lipstick, Miss Poole.’
It seems praise for Miss Poole is catching on.
The giggling from the children and the laughter from the audience seems to sweep Miss Poole into the body of the church, and Malcolm hurries to follow her, hoping to be less conspicuous. He just catches a glimpse of Rev. Ruth’s look of surprise, before a small but muscly hand grabs at his coat sleeve and, looking to his right, he sees Padam. He gestures Malcolm to the seat he has saved for him, closest to the aisle, and Malcolm sinks gratefully into it. There is no time to do more than nod gratefully at Padam before the organ booms out the introduction to a carol and, with scuffling and loud whispered exhortations from adult helpers to take care, the candles poking from clove-covered oranges are lit, and the service begins.
The children are halfway down the aisle when it happens.
Padam has just pointed out his nephew’s son and daughter – older children at the head of the procession – when one of the following kings stops dead and a log-jam of children fills the aisle. Just ahead of them, young shepherds slowly and carefully walk on, taking baby steps, eyes fixed on their candles, as instructed. Further on, the older children have nearly reached Rev. Ruth. In the centre of the church the gap between the static kings and shepherds grows wider. The problem seems to be a crown slipping down around a small girl’s face so she can no longer see. She is turning her head left and right, candle wobbling. The beginning of a wail is attracting the audience’s attention. A quick-thinking member of the congregation reaches out from her place in the nearbypew and she holds the girl’s hands steady as she tweaks the crown up. An audible sigh of relief ripples through the church.
But not through Malcolm. He is watching the shepherds, and one of them, turning to see what is going on behind him, has flicked a corner of his tea towel into the flame of his Christingle. In seconds the edge of the tea towel is ablaze. Children block the exit to his right, and Malcolm does the only thing he can think of.
He stands.
Then, bowing low over the pew in front, he pulls his body backwards in an arch, like the high jumper he once was, taking a run-up. Without further conscious thought, he gets one foot on the pew seat behind him, places one hand on Padam’s shoulder and launches himself over the top of the children towards the shepherds. He is conscious of only two things. One is a Mexican wave of mothers rising from a pew in front of him – they have just spotted the conflagration too. The second is the thought –still got it Malcolm Buswell– as he sails through the air and lands neatly in the aisle, where he quickly pulls the tea towel from the boy’s head and stamps the flames out with his Lobb boot.
It is Rev. Ruth who leads the applause as Malcolm, raising a modest hand, returns to his seat – trying hard not to limp. His knee is absolutely killing him. Then the organ booms out once more and the service recommences. Malcolm hardly notices what is happening, or the pain in his knee. He is just conscious of Padam patting his arm, and his whispered, ‘That was very well done, Malcolm. Very impressive.’ After the patting stops, Malcolm can still feel Padam’s arm up against his own, the warmth of it making him feel far more breathless than his sudden vault into the aisle had done.
The service is over and most of the congregation has dispersed. With the emptying of pews, Malcolm is able to see more of the church – the Christmas tree with its glimmering lights, the advent candles, the rich purple of the altar cloths which always remind him of Ruth – her favourite colour – and the displays of festive flowers and foliage. Malcolm moves forward, waiting to have a word with Rev. Ruth, and Padam seems to be waiting too – for what, Malcolm has no idea. However, he is more than happy to stand with him at the front of the church, chatting, while Ruth and churchwardens collect up carol sheets and lost property.
‘I gather you were a high jumper then, Malcolm,’ Padam says, with just a hint of laughter.
‘Hardly that,’ Malcolm insists modestly. ‘But it was the one thing that I excelled at in school, and I suppose one doesn’t forget the technique. But I was not good enough to carry it on after I started work.’
What had he done then? Not a lot, really. He walked pretty much everywhere in London. And there had been a time when he liked to dance. But that seems like a lifetime ago now. Still, there had been that time dancing with Ruth and Jo in Uncle Wilbur’s flat.Andthere had been Ruth’s ‘Tarts and Vicars’ party. Ruth in fishnets and him as a vicar. Oh, he had danced that night.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Padam asks.
‘Nothing. Indeed, nothing,’ Malcolm says hurriedly. ‘Did you enjoy sport, Padam?’
‘Yes, very much so. Being a Gurkha was pretty physical, so I think it was rather a good thing that I enjoyed running and climbing.’ He pauses, ‘Although my true love was archery.’ Padam mimics pulling a bow. ‘Now, that was a sport I enjoyed immensely. My father was exceptionally good, and in the end, I like to think that I made him proud …’
He seems reluctant to say anything further, so Malcolm says pleasantly, ‘Yes?’ He is sure there is more.
Looking self-conscious, but standing straighter, Padam continues, ‘I did represent my country at archery. Twice in the South Asian regional championships. I did not win any medals, but I felt it was a great honour, and I like to think my family were pleased.’
‘I am sure they were,’ Malcolm exclaims. He is about to ask more when his elbow and quite a lot of his body is pushed aside by a small middle-aged woman barging down the aisle. Her back view reminds him of a belligerent bulldog. A bulldog wearing an apron and a small pink hat, pinned upright to a rigid cap of ebony hair. He looks at her in consternation. He had nearly knocked into Padam. Half under her breath, the woman is keeping up an audible monologue in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘Bloody kids, always make more of a mess. And wax! I ask you, who thought it was a good idea to give candles to kids. Daft idea. Surprised they didn’t burn the place down …’
